4
by franthephoenix
Summary: It’s back to Hogwarts as the trio vow to finish their NEWTs. Haunted by visions of the dead and the pull of the Resurrection Stone, Harry must fight a terrible curse as he works to uncover an ancient secret. H/D slash.
1. Back to School

**Author's Notes:** A big thank you to wemyss at FictionAlley and FreeDaChickens at Perfect Imagination for looking over this chapter. All remaining errors are my own.

4

The whispers followed him from carriage to carriage, from King's Cross to Hogsmeade Station, where the train eventually slowed to a stop. In retrospect, Harry shouldn't have expected any different: he was a hero now, not just the boy who lived, but the boy who lived to save the world; it was foolish to believe that the world would just leave him to it. It was stupid to hope that nobody would care about him travelling back to school on the first of September as a student again.

As he, Ron, and Hermione trundled up to Hogwarts' main entrance in their carriage, Harry was already questioning his decision to return. He had forgotten how claustrophobic school life could feel – all eyes on him, so little privacy, the burden of expectations weighing him down... But then, he recalled, he had had little choice in the matter. Who would have known that written qualifications held more prestige than vanquishing Dark Lords?

The irony wasn't lost on him: he was good enough to save the world, but employers regretted to inform him that they had received an influx of strong applications, so they would not be asking him for interview at this time. Kind regards, &c. He had received so many of these form letters that he could guess exactly what they said by the size of the envelope. The majority of them did not even refer to him by name, simply using the generic 'Sir'. Harry had to ball his fists to stop himself from scribbling a reply by owl – _Don't you know what I've done?_

Ashamed as he was to admit it, he really _did_ think that his name alone should have ensured him several job offers – many more than the tally of zero that he had amounted through June and July. It wasn't until Hermione came to visit in August that he realized precisely why he had been wrong.

'Well of course it's not about qualifications,' she had told him. 'Your track record in practical defence is worth more to the Aurors than a couple of NEWTs could ever be. The problem is –' here, she sighed '– the problem is that they're _scared_, Harry. You didn't see what you were like in the Great Hall, the way you were talking to Voldemort. It was ... odd. Brilliant, yes, but _frightening_.'

'But you weren't scared of me!' said Harry.

'I was a little.' Hermione had the grace to blush and lower her eyes. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'It was just very strange, that's all. Very strange indeed.'

Harry said nothing, willing himself not to get angry. Hermione reached over to squeeze his hand, and he squeezed back. It wasn't her fault that he had been tainted with an unfair reputation.

He took a deep breath. 'So tell me again why I should go back to Hogwarts?'

The answer she gave him made sense.

'They just need _time_, Harry. A year from now, you'll see, everyone'll be vying for you. No one will remember the battle, they'll all have forgotten that whole thing about rising from the dead...'

'I didn't rise from the dead, Hermione.'

'You know what I mean. And I think if you just keep your head down for a bit, it'll blow over. And you'll become, well, more of a _normal_ celebrity. Besides –' she met his eyes '– don't you think you could do with a break from all the fighting? I know that I could.'

Harry privately thought that Hermione could as well. The last two months had not been kind to her: she had had to find her parents and return their memories before explaining everything that had happened while they were away. He suspected their recovery had been more difficult than Hermione would have wanted, but his friend did not offer any details, and he didn't want to press her.

Harry's summer had been uneventful in comparison. For a while he had stayed at the Burrow to be there for the Weasleys. It soon transpired, though, that there was little he could do to help them through their grief.

Mrs Weasley had clung to him with a new kind of fervour. Where in the past she had just fussed over him, now she wouldn't leave him alone. She would burst in on him and Ron with trays of tea and juice and scones, make their beds for them and collect their laundry, start to tidy Ron's floor, and then head back down to the kitchen to prepare more snacks for them.

If they were planning on going outside, she would ask them to reconsider. Perhaps they'd help her with the housework instead, or maybe they could all just relax and listen to the wireless.

On the rare occasions that they did go out, just to the field nearby to play Quidditch, Mrs Weasley would accost them as soon as they returned. 'Look at the state of you both!' she would say. 'Those jeans are terribly scruffy, Harry, whip them off and I'll blast them with an ironing charm.

'No thanks, Mrs Weasley!' Harry had squawked when she had suggested this. 'They're fine. Really, everything's fine. Ron and I were just going to go upstairs.'

The only times Mrs Weasley left them to it were when she was crying. Her sobs kept them up at night and woke them up in the morning. Harry would have done anything to make her feel better. There wasn't anything to do.

On the Wednesday of the first week, she had called him Fred. He had thought it a slip of the tongue and decided not to correct her. The slips of tongue became more frequent, and as they did, so did his and Ron's trips outside – to the Quidditch field, to the village, to Diagon Alley – anywhere but the Burrow.

Ginny, meanwhile, had distanced herself from Harry. The bond he had previously felt between them had diminished, its cords pulled tight and taut. It wasn't for lack of trying: they had both fought to reclaim the ease that used to characterize their relationship. Harry didn't know which one of them had changed, or if it was simply the situation, but there was an awkwardness about their dialogue. No longer did it flow.

Ginny took the Floo to George's every evening and stayed an hour before returning and comforting her mother until it was time for bed. She would kiss Ron goodnight, avoid looking at Harry, and head upstairs. She would wake up earlier than him and already have gone out by the time he sat down for breakfast.

Eventually it occurred to him that he was just getting in the way.

'I think I'm going to go back to Grimmauld Place,' he said in the darkness of Ron's room one night in early July. 'It should just be family.'

'You are family, you know that, Harry,' Ron told him.

'Yeah, I know that. But...'

'Yeah,' said Ron, 'I know.' He paused. 'I'm sorry it's been so weird here.'

'It hasn't! It's been...'

'It's all right. I know mum's been ... not herself lately.'

'She will be,' said Harry firmly. 'It's going to be all right, Ron. And you can come over to stay whenever you want to, and your mum and dad too if they like, and George and Ginny...'

'I'll tell them,' said Ron. 'Thanks, Harry. Give me a couple of weeks, but I'll definitely come over.'

Eight hours later, having hugged everyone goodbye, Harry had Apparated to the door of Grimmauld Place.

He had spent a month doing nothing but filling in application forms and cleaning. Kreacher was thrilled to see him, and initially he had enjoyed the new lifestyle, but the countless rejections and the monotony of day to day life became laborious after a while. It was with open arms that Harry welcomed Hermione and Ron, and two weeks before Hogwarts term started, all three had decided to go back.

If Professor McGonagall had been surprised to admit them, it was nothing compared to the atmosphere that greeted them when they stepped onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Whispers and pointed fingers marked their progress onto the train, interspersed every now and then with a gasp, a shout, or an excited 'Did you see? I told you!'

Harry too was curious to see who else had returned for their NEWTs. On the train he met Dean and Seamus, who both expected to take their exams in December.

'Me mam would have killed me if I didn't come back. And it's only three months.'

Harry wondered vaguely whether he could manage to pass his exams in that time, but he brushed the thought away. It was a whole year he had missed out on; even if he could cram everything into three months, it would not help the employment issue.

'Better you than me,' said Ron, who had more of a brightness about him lately. 'I think I've forgotten everything. I'm dreading June.'

'You'll be fine,' said Hermione, threading her hand in his. He smiled in response.

The rest of the journey passed peaceably. At Hogsmeade, Harry and his friends parted ways with Dean and Seamus, sharing their own carriage up to the school. The nearer they got, the more Harry started to think that he should have stayed at home with Kreacher. But it wasn't until they reached the grounds that the terror gripped him.

It came from nowhere, like a blow to the guts, painful and winding. There, to the west, the Whomping Willow: the entrance to the passage they had crawled through to see Snape killed by Nagini. Up ahead, the front of the castle, magically mended but still crumbling in places; Fred had died up there, had been murdered in the blink of an eye. A few feet away from them Harry had lain as if dead; here, Neville had chopped the head off Nagini, the penultimate Horcrux. A moment before, Neville had been writhing and screaming under Crucio.

And there, behind him to the left, the path he had walked to what he thought was certain death, the trail through the forest, the numbness that gripped him replaced by the warmth and courage emanating from the most powerful weapon of all, his parents and Sirius and Lupin rising shadowlike from the Resurrection Stone.

The Resurrection Stone. He had not mentioned it, had not voiced the thoughts aloud, but it had called to him in dreams, danced in his mind on waking. As he stood outside the castle, it was all he could do not to run towards it, to find the place where it had fallen, brush the leaves away, lift it from the ground and turn it over...

'Come on, Harry.' Hermione's tone was soft but firm and there was something like sadness in her expression. Harry allowed her to take his arm and lead him past the Thestrals up to the castle, with Ron on the other side of Hermione, his arm around her shoulders.

They huddled close as they scaled the stone stairs and stepped from the cold into the bustling glow of the Entrance Hall.


	2. The Resurrection Stone

**Author's Notes:** A big thank you to wemyss at FictionAlley and FreeDaChickens at Perfect Imagination for looking over this chapter. All remaining errors are my own.

4

It was impossible not to remember the time they had stepped into the Great Hall during the break in the final battle: dead bodies lined up in the middle of the floor, staring, unseeing, towards the clear starry night projected across the enchanted ceiling ... Fred surrounded by family, Lupin and Tonks placed side by side, Oliver Wood carrying the small form of Colin Creevey...

Harry knew his friends remembered too; he could feel Hermione stiffen next to him, her hand clenched over his wrist, tight and painful. He smiled weakly at her and Ron as they walked on slowly.

The Hall was no fuller than it had ever been at the start of term, despite the extra year group: the casualties from the height of the war had served to stem any growth in population. Harry glanced over at the four House tables; Ravenclaw's was busier than usual, Slytherin's noticeably less so. Malfoy, Bulstrode and Zabini were there, but no Pansy Parkinson, no Goyle, and of course, no Crabbe.

He met Malfoy's eyes for a moment and was unsurprised to see that the blond looked terrible. He had not gained any of the weight lost during the last year, and his skin looked pale and clammy. He sat at the far corner of the table, ignoring his housemates. Harry did not dwell on this for long.

Ron and Hermione had already sat down opposite Dean and Seamus at Gryffindor's table. Harry took the seat next to Dean, so that his back was turned from the rest of the Hall and he was facing the window. A few places up from him, Neville was talking to Ginny. Harry smiled at Neville but received no reaction; his friend must not have seen him.

Silence fell across the Hall as the new first years were called to line up at the front, and the Sorting began. It was Slughorn who read their names: McGonagall sat at the centre of the teacher's table, formidable as ever. On the far left of the table, Hagrid beamed at him. Harry smiled and gave a short wave to the half-giant before turning away.

The Sorting Ceremony seemed to pass with torturous slowness, and Harry applauded half-heartedly with the rest. Next came McGonagall's speech: she said little about the events of last year and focussed mainly on timetabling difficulties resulting from the new term's different year groups. Since so many people were taking different exams at different times and since individuals had to repeat different amounts of different classes, it was vital that everyone see their Heads of House and discuss their studies thoroughly.

It occurred to Harry that he did not even know who had taken over the role for Gryffindor, though this was quickly remedied: as soon as McGonagall's speech had ended, she introduced the new staff. Professor Aubrey, a weedy, greying man, would be taking them for Defence Against the Dark Arts, while Gryffindor House would be in the clutches of a strict-looking Russian woman named Asya Petrova.

Harry cast an appraising look over Professor Petrova, from her thin lips to her short black hair to her dark, blazing eyes. If he had previously thought that nobody could match up to the austerity of Professor McGonagall, it seemed he was mistaken.

Professor Petrova saw him watching her. He smiled politely and noticed with a hint of foreboding that she did not smile back.

The Hall was awash with chatter now, and as the serving dishes became laden, students heaped rich foods onto their plates. Harry allowed his mind to go blank for the first time in as long as he could remember. He ate his fill in roast beef and potatoes and turned the conversation to Quidditch: Did Seamus think he'd be eligible for team captain, for Seeker still, or would the seventh years get first call in that regard, since they too would be leaving in July?

'It's not like they're going to say no if you ask,' cut in Dean, shaking his head in amusement. 'Me, on the other hand...'

'They'd be idiots not to let you play. You're four times better than Fletcher.' It was a lie, but a white one, Harry thought.

'Are you going to try out, Ron?' asked Hermione. 'You too, Seamus?'

The Irishman shook his head, but offered no explanation. Ron, on the other hand, said he might do, yes, it wasn't a bad idea ... and with that, he left them mid-sentence to go and discuss it with Ginny.

Hermione took this opportunity to steer the discussion in the direction of schoolwork. She was terribly excited, she said, to be getting back into the swing of things. Of course she had worked as much as she could over the holidays, but it just wasn't the same, was it? Without the guidance of Hogwarts professors, how were you to know if you'd fully understood? You might make a simple mistake and compound your errors.

Harry was about to point out that the chance of Hermione making errors was slim to none when something caught his eye and threw his train of thought off balance. For a moment then – but no – it couldn't have been. It must have been a trick of the light – nothing more.

He tore his gaze from the window, breathing heavily.

'Harry, are you all right?' Hermione was staring at him, eyes round.

'You've turned white as a ghost, mate.' Dean's eyebrows were furrowed. He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, tilted his head to the right to peer at him in concern.

'I'm fine.' Harry twisted from Dean's hold, watched his friend's hand drop to the table. 'I'm fine, really.'

But Harry's heart was thudding loudly and his hands were clammy with sweat. He wiped them on his trousers.

'What were you saying?'

He barely heard Hermione's response. All he could think about was that figure he had just seen through the window: long hair, pale face, hook nose...

It was impossible.

He could not possibly have just looked straight into the eyes of Severus Snape.

* * *

Harry excused himself as soon as he could and made his way straight upstairs to the dormitories in Gryffindor Tower. He was alone, at least for now: later, Neville, Dean, and Seamus would join him, and he would rather be without company for the time being.

His trunk was sitting at the foot of the second bed on the right in his new room. He went over to it immediately and fished out his Invisibility Cloak, which he stuffed under his pillow, and the old Marauder's Map, which he put in the pocket of his robes. Then he pulled the curtains around him and fell into a light doze.

He woke exactly four minutes before his alarm went off – a habit that he had somehow acquired over the years. In retrospect, both the alarm spell and the silencing charm had been pointless: even when unconscious, his body seemed to know what to do.

It was almost midnight. Quietly, so as not to disturb anyone, Harry grabbed his Invisibility Cloak and wand and crept through the gap of the curtains into the moonlit dormitory. He tiptoed out of the room, wrapped his Invisibility Cloak around him, and stepped down into the common room and out into the corridor.

Frequent glances at the map told him that nobody was up and about at this time of night. He moved on quickly, weaving his way through passages and down staircases with practiced ease. He had one destination in mind and no obstacle to get in his way. Within five minutes, he had pulled open the door in the Entrance Hall and was hurrying down the steps onto the vast, cold grounds.

It was with grim determination that he attempted to recall that path he had taken in the final battle – when he had walked past Ginny and on, knowing that with every step he was closer to his own demise. To look at the grounds as they were, bathed in light from the moon above, Harry thought a visitor would never know they had hosted so much destruction just four months earlier. It had taken twenty-two days and a team of a hundred and fifty wizards to restore the castle during May: Harry himself had stayed here before moving on to the Weasleys, though his work was confined to the corridor outside the Room of Requirement. He had made sure to arrange it that way, for there were parts of the castle that he was all too happy to avoid.

He continued walking briskly, arms wrapped round himself under the cloak to fend against the cold. He was near Hagrid's cabin now – he could just make out the sound of Fang's snoring from inside – but he swerved to the right rather than continue straight and swiftly reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

Here, the path was trickier; he recalled the stone had fallen in the clearing of Aragog's old lair, but none of the trails through the trees looked familiar to him. Even with _Lumos_ cast, he could only see a few yards ahead of him; the branches canopied above blocked most of the moonlight. He walked for what seemed like forever over crisp fallen leaves, brittle twigs, and broken roots that snapped under his feet. And then, quite suddenly, he stopped.

He had heard something.

Harry held his breath: the footsteps were getting louder. Foliage crackled and crunched on the ground nearby. He fought against his instinct to call out, simply gripping his wand tight and waiting. Under the cover of his Invisibility Cloak, he held the advantage.

And then a person stepped into the small clearing, his path lit by a Lumos charm. The glow from the tip cast a brief illumination of his features: pale skin, high cheekbones, thin lips, eyes wide with fear.

'Oh, it's just you.' And Harry pulled off his cloak to reveal himself to Malfoy.

'Jesus – Potter.' Malfoy took a step back, and Harry watched relief wash over the Slytherin's face. 'You were making a right racket. I thought you were a centaur.' He lowered his wand, and then seemed to reconsider that manoeuvre. With more of a bite to his tone, he said, 'What are you doing out here?'

'What are _you_ doing, Malfoy? Don't you know it's dangerous in the forest? You might get killed, or better.'

Malfoy ignored the taunt. 'It's none of your business,' he said coldly, his eyes narrowed to slits. 'I suggest we just go our separate ways. I'm feeling the rather pressing urge not to talk to you, and I can't see it subsiding any time soon.'

Harry snorted. 'Would have thought you could do with the company. After all, no one else is talking to you, are they? And why would they want to?'

'Shut up, Potter.'

'That's it, isn't it, Malfoy? Came out here to mope alone, all alone. I expect you wanted to run into something like a centaur, have it put you out of your misery –'

But Malfoy only laughed, low and without any trace of humour. 'Nice to see you've matured since last year, Potter. Never would have thought it.'

He swung around and stalked back into the forest before Harry could reply.

Unconcerned, Harry carried on in his original direction. It was around here somewhere: he could see that the trees were thinner here, the gaps between them widened over the years by the road-runs of Mr. Weasley's battered old car. He held his wand high above him, peering in its glow. Only a few feet further, he saw it – a piece of enormous spider's web, its threads glistening like gold.

Swallowing down the bile that rose to his throat, he pushed recklessly through the foliage. As soon as he reached the clearing, he dropped to his knees.

The search took him deep into the night and through the small hours of the morning. Using _Accio_ did not cross his mind: he knew better than to hope that such an item would yield to simple magic.

His method was frantic and wearying: he started at points he thought he recognized, but after a while, everything started to look the same – and in consequence, his efforts became randomized. By half past two, his right shoulder was aching badly, and he was sure his knees were bleeding. The stone was the size of his thumbnail, the clearing the size of a large house. He knew the odds were against him finding it, yet this did not stop him; it drove him to look harder, faster, his desperation rising with each minute that ticked by.

Darkness gave way to twilight and still Harry searched. His hands were red and raw and scratched from scraping at the earth. He stood up and used his feet, sifted through leaves and twigs, pausing, peering, praying he would somehow come across it. A half hour passed, and then another. Light filtered in around him; the sun was starting to rise.

His body felt stiff when he stretched and looked at his wristwatch: it was ten past six. He could not stay out here much longer; his housemates would be getting up in just under an hour.

Battered, defeated, he stumbled away from the clearing. His knee gave a horrid crack, and he leant against a tall oak tree for support.

And that was when he saw it. A foot off the ground, resting innocently on the bark of a large tree root. Hiding in plain sight.

Harry sunk to the ground. Trembling, he reached over and picked up the Resurrection Stone.

It was not quite as he remembered it: though still cracked, the stone had a greyish tinge, as if it had been out in the sun too long. It still felt the same, though: light, yet somehow heavy; cold, yet somehow warm.

A smile crept across his face as he closed his eyes and let his head rest against the tree bark. His body was exhausted, but his mind, he thought, had never been more alive.

Slowly, surely, with deliberate care, he turned the stone over four times.


	3. Potions

**Author's Note:** Huge thank yous to FreeDaChickens at Perfect Imagination dot co dot uk for the beta. All remaining errors are my own.

* * *

4

Perhaps he should have expected nothing to happen. The greyish tinge, he thought, ought to have been enough to alert him that something had changed within the stone.

He sat there and felt nothing: no warmth, no hope, not even regret. The aftermath was numbing.

With a great, shuddering effort, Harry heaved himself up from the ground and dropped the Resurrection Stone into his pocket. Exhaustion caught up with him, and he swayed as he stood. He had to get back to the castle: he had to clean himself up before anybody noticed he was missing. Slowly, he stumbled through the trees, wondering how he was going to manage his first full day of school.

The trek back took twenty minutes but seemed to pass in a blink of an eye. Before Harry knew it, he was tiptoeing back into the dormitory, mindful of his sleeping roommates in dreamt adventures of their own. After depositing his Invisibility Cloak in his trunk, Harry showered quickly and scrubbed away the dirt and the blood. He checked his appearance in the mirror: not too bad, though not particularly good, either. There was nothing to be done about the redness of his eyes, nor the dark circles that were beginning to take form there. He shrugged, pulled on his clothes, and headed down to breakfast.

Harry was on his third cup of coffee by the time Ron and Hermione arrived, bringing with them questions as to where he had been and why he had not waited for them. Harry mumbled something about having woken early and quickly apologized.

'Don't tell me Hermione's got to you,' said Ron, yawning widely. 'You should have heard her earlier. "Oh, I'm just _so_ looking forward to Arithmancy, I could barely sleep at _all_."'

Harry could not help but smile: from the tone of excitement to the arm movements, Ron's impression had Hermione spot on.

'No shame in that,' his other friend said now, though the blush that rose to her cheeks suggested otherwise. 'I wouldn't expect you two to understand, but it really is fascinating.'

'Gotta be better than Potions, at any rate,' Harry said. He was thinking of his sixth year and the help he had received from a certain Half-Blood Prince. Harry knew he would be on his own now that his book had perished in the fire of the Room of Requirement. If only he had thought to copy down some of the instructions while it was still in his grasp...

'Slughorn's not that bad,' Ron was saying. 'Better him than Sna–'

'What about Transfiguration?' asked Hermione swiftly. 'I've heard Professor McGonagall has split the teaching with Professor Petrova. She'll be taking us – McGonagall, that is. Petrova's got the lower years.'At her words, all three of them looked up at the teacher's table. To their great surprise, Asya Petrova was immersed in conversation with none other than Rubeus Hagrid – and a serious conversation, it seemed. Where Hagrid's expression was one of puzzlement, Petrova looked nothing short of scared: she talked hurriedly with quick shakes of the head, wild hand gestures punctuating her speech.

'Looks ominous,' said Ron, before taking a great bite of toast, chewing loudly.

'S'pose we'll have to visit Hagrid,' put in Harry. 'We ought to anyway.'

The morning post came then, forestalling any further discussion on the subject. Three barn owls swooped low over the trio and deposited three identical bits of parchment in Hermione's cornflakes.

She scrunched her nose as she fished them, dripping, out of her milk. 'They're from Petrova,' she said, 'about our timetables. Here.' And she handed a sodden parchment to each Ron and Harry.

'I've got to see her at four,' said Harry, peering at his own note. 'At least I think that's what it says.' The ink had run, but he could just make out the writing.

'Lunchtime for me. Damn,' said Ron. 'Don't suppose you wanna swap, Harry?'

'I'm sure she'll give you time to eat,' said Hermione, smiling fondly.

They finished their breakfast in amicable silence, and then set off for classes.

* * *

Harry had thought that Potions would not be enjoyable. He was absolutely right. The lesson spanned two hours at the end of the day, and he had felt half-dead before it even started.

Slughorn had singled him out no sooner than he'd taken a seat (at the back of the classroom, tucked away in the corner).

'And there's our expert! Don't even know why I'm teaching you, I'm sure Harry would do a better job!'

'Kill me now,' Harry muttered as Ron snickered.

All eyes were on him as the class began collecting the ingredients for the complex Memory Potion they would be brewing. Cursing his lack of foresight to sit next to Hermione, Harry took his place to the left of Ron and started weighing the powdered moonstone as directed by his book. From his position in the corner it was impossible to see what other people were doing, so he carried out the instructions as best he could.

It was not easy: lack of sleep made even the simplest task more difficult than it should have been, and the soporific smells from the bubbling cauldrons made his eyelids droop. Hands shaking, and swaying on his feet, Harry chopped up his ingredients roughly and threw them into his potion. More than once, he forgot whether or not he had added something; each time, he decided he hadn't, knowing that a double dose was likely to do less damage overall.

When Slughorn clapped his hands for them to stop, Harry examined his potion. It was a darker, murkier blue than Ron's beside him, yet still blue – not that this was going to mollify Slughorn, he thought with distress.

The Potions professor was winding his way round the classroom. Harry heard him stop to berate several students along the way ('Oh no, Mr Malfoy, this won't do, this won't do at all'). With every step closer that Slughorn took to him, Harry's panic trebled.

Finally, Slughorn reached their table.

'Very good, Miss Granger! Precisely the forget-me-not colour I was hoping for. Won't you try it, my dear?'

Harry stared at Hermione. His friend was smiling, unconcerned, as she lifted a beaker to her lips and sipped her potion. She frowned.

'I don't feel any different,' she said, disappointed.

'Just you wait! You'll have no problems remembering details for your write-up tonight, girl.' Slughorn winked. 'You can thank me later.'

It was Ron's turn now, but Slughorn barely looked at his concoction, declaring it 'passable'. He moved over to Harry, his grin of anticipation fading as he bent over the cauldron.

'Ah.' Slughorn lifted a ladle of the potion and let it slop back down with a splatter. Disappointment was etched across his features. 'A few too many Billywig stingers, do you think?'

Harry did not know what possessed him to do it. He found himself speaking before his brain could tell him to stop.

'That was intentional,' he was saying. 'I've made Memory Charms before, but they're never strong enough.'

'Oh! Oho, ho! Built up a resistance, have we?'

Harry nodded. He gestured towards the dirty liquid in his cauldron. 'It's not pretty to look at,' he heard himself say, 'but it ought to do the job.'

'Well, if our star potion maker says so, who am I to disagree? Very clever to adjust the draught according to preference. Ten points to Gryffindor, I say. Well, Harry – drink up!'

He had no other option: the whole class had turned to face him as he scooped a glassful of the liquid and held it up. Light glinted off the beaker; the potion looked revolting, but surely it could not be lethal, surely Slughorn would know if it were...

There was nothing for it. Ignoring a murderous look from Hermione, and smiling a rather strained smile, Harry lifted his potion in cheers and knocked it back.

At first, nothing happened. Harry got through the rest of the lesson feeling no better or worse than he had earlier, and as he packed away his things, he wondered if he might have got away with it. Relief surged through him when he stepped out of the classroom and sped down the Hall. The day was nearly over: all he had to do was see Professor Petrova, and then he could head straight back to Gryffindor Tower and go to sleep. He could always catch up on homework during study periods tomorrow.

It was in a lighter mood that he knocked on the door of Petrova's office, which sat adjacent to the Transfiguration classroom.

'Enter!' she said.

Harry opened the door and looked around as he went inside. Petrova's office was small and complicated, a mismatch of different styles that clashed horribly. It seemed to have been designed by somebody who had absolutely no idea what an office was supposed to look like: the chairs were at all angles, the lighting was dark green, and the bookcases appeared to be made from black Styrofoam.

Harry took a seat in a clear, Perspex chair on the other side of Professor Petrova's marble desk. It was extraordinarily uncomfortable.

'Mr Potter, this shouldn't take long.' Petrova did not look up from the parchment on which she was writing. 'You're to repeat the whole year, I understand? No early exams or other potential problems?'

Harry shook his head before remembering, 'Oh! I was thinking about playing Quidditch, but that won't get in the way, I wouldn't have thought.'

'Quidditch?' And now Petrova did look up. 'I understand you're a competent player. You were captain in your sixth year, weren't you?' Her eyes were narrowed.

'Yeah, I mean, obviously it depends on the seventh years –'

'Hm. From what I gather, they'd be happy to have you on the team. Do you think that's a fair assumption?'

'Er – yeah,' said Harry.

'But after all, you've been Seeker since your first year, is this correct?' She did not wait for an answer. 'Whereas some of the others, however talented, haven't been given much of a chance?'

'...I suppose not,' said Harry. He hid a yawn behind the back of his hand.

'Mr Potter, it is your decision,' continued Petrova. 'You may apply for Seeker – for captain – if you wish. Certainly nobody will stop you. Doubtless, many of your Housemates would be glad to have you on the team...'

Harry had stopped listening; his attention had wandered to the window, which overlooked three of the goalposts from the Quidditch pitch. They were not what caught his interest: there was something else out there, something large and black and dancing in the wind...

He was in a corridor, huddled over, trapped under the Invisibility Cloak with Luna. Scenes flashed before his eyes: a fight between Snape and McGonagall, fire blasting from her wand tip; a large snake hissing as it slithered across the polished floor ... twenty flying daggers piercing a suit of armour ... and then, outside the window, that black shape swooping like a bat in the night sky...

He was outside the shack, crouched all small and hidden, unable to take his eyes away. Nagini reared, and then plunged; a loud _crack_ reverberated round the room as the blood splattered. The high, cold, commanding _Kill!_ still echoed in Harry's ears.

Snape slumped sideways, his mouth open, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

Harry surged and grasped at his robes while Snape's fingers clung to his own neck. He was trying to stem the blood flow, but the blood flowed faster.

_Take it_, Snape was rasping.

Memories rushed from him, swirling from eyes and ears.

_Take it_ ... _take it_...

'...Mr Potter? Mr Potter, did you hear what I just said?'

'I'm sorry,' said Harry, blinking to clear his clouded vision. He was in the office in front of Petrova. His head throbbed as if someone had taken a bat to it. He was going to vomit.

'I've got to go.'

Petrova was calling after him as he stumbled out of her office, lurching wildly. He swallowed, and concentrated on breathing, concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other without crumpling to the floor.

The corridor swayed and rocked as he staggered onwards, the memories he had revisited still engraved on his mind: Snape under Nagini, mouth open in a terrible grimace; the metallic stink of blood as it poured from gaping wounds; the crunch of bone as his neck shattered; the sounds of his own screaming ringing in his ears...

The reek of death itself engulfing his senses, clawing at him, intent on dragging him into the abyss...

'Harry! Harry, what's the matter?'

The fear, the fear and the stench, the blood and the screaming and the vomit, the vomit all over his shoes, all over the floor.

'Oh, God, get him in here. _Excalibur's_ the password!'

The struggle, a helpless struggle, a helpless plea, and then the memories pouring forth from cold black eyes...

'Sit down, you have to sit down, Harry!'

'I'm going to be sick.'

'Again? Someone get a basin!'

Not Snape's voice. Not Voldemort's, either.

'Hermione?' said Harry.

'Oh, Harry, thank God, thank _God_ you're all right.'

The scene shifted. Hermione came into view, hair tangled, face ashen.

Harry swallowed down the sick that rose from his stomach. He shut his eyes.

'Where are we?' It came out as a hoarse, gravely whisper.

'The common room. I saw you outside, you... I need to get you to Pomfrey.'

Deep breath. 'I'm okay.'

'You're not okay, Harry –'

'It was the Memory Potion. M'okay now, I promise. It's fine. It's wearing off.'

'Well ... if you're _sure_...'

'I'm sure. It's wearing off.'

Harry opened his eyes slowly. The surroundings of Gryffindor Tower swam into and out of focus, reds and golds spinning and merging, then separating at leisurely pace. Hermione, all concern, was sitting very close: her head was tilted and Harry could feel her breathing.

'I'm gonna ... I'm gonna go sleep it off,' managed Harry. He pushed himself up.

'Wait,' said Hermione. She was staring at him as though searching for an answer. 'You're certain – you're certain it's just the potion?'

'_What?_'

Instinctively, Harry's hand came to rest over his pocket. Over the Resurrection Stone that Hermione could not possibly know about. The Resurrection Stone that did not even work any longer.

'Of course it was the potion.' Harry rubbed his forehead. 'Look, if it still feels weird tomorrow, I'll get an antidote from Pomfrey, all right?'

Hermione did not answer for a moment. She opened her mouth in hesitation, then closed it, and gave a short nod.

'I'll see you in the morning,' Harry muttered.

He pushed through gawking crowds to the spiral stairway and up to the dormitory, counting his steps in an effort to keep his mind free from thought. Without distractions now, he noticed the smell of the sick and the taste in his mouth from vomiting. After thirty-four steps, he reached the bathroom, where he cleaned his teeth and stepped under the shower.

It was only five o'clock, but even after washing he felt like he couldn't stay awake for a moment longer. He pulled on his pyjamas and went straight to bed, wet hair still dripping.

Harry's dreams that night followed a confused, labyrinthine path of past realism intertwined with the impossible. First, he was in the Shrieking Shack, watching as the scene of Snape's demise replayed itself as if looped on a projector ... and the surroundings blurred then cleared, and he was not in the shack after all, but standing outside it ... and now Snape was alive, seeming different, looking younger, perhaps, but in some way just the same as he always was.

It was Snape, all right, with his curly brown hair and those red velvet robes that swept right down to long-toed buckled shoes – inappropriate in this weather, providing little defence against the inch-thick coating of snow that covered the grounds.

Harry plodded after the professor, apprehension building with every step he took: they were so close now, though to what, he could not quite remember ... and as he walked, the fear and excitement he felt told him that soon everything would become clear.

On they trod, crunching through the snow as the ground sloped steeply upwards; soon, they had scaled the top of the hill and were making their way down the other side. Snape's pace increased, and Harry had to jog to keep up. Twice, he stumbled. He called out for Snape to slow down, but the professor gave no answer.

A magpie flew past overhead to settle on the branches of an oak tree over to the right of him. It struck Harry as a portent of something bad – something unnatural. He had never liked magpies; they seemed to him in some way connected to witchcraft. The work of the devil.

He patted his sword which hung from his belt, though its touch did nothing to reassure him. The wind picked up; it chilled him to the bone.

Harry pulled his own cloak tightly around him as the magpie cawed – an awful, evil sound which made him shudder. It warned of the terrors at the end of this path. He knew that no good could come of his journey.

Harry longed to turn back, but the tug of an invisible cord seemed to pull him on further. The professor was so far ahead now that Harry wondered if he would ever catch up – when, without warning, Snape stopped. He sunk to his knees, began to dig through the snow with his hands. Something must be buried there.

Closing his mind to his deep sense of foreboding, Harry ran onwards. Each step took enormous effort; it was as if he were wading through mud, as if the very air around him were thicker.

When he reached Snape, the professor stood. He held in his hands a strange object: it looked a little like a silver jewellery box, though something about it seemed sinister. Harry leant forwards to get a closer look, but the professor quickly obscured it from his view. He turned to Harry with a gleam of fervour and spoke with urgency.

'Remember this, Harry. Remember it.'

Then he said four letters, and repeated them, and as he did so, his voice grew louder. The four letters echoed in Harry's ears, and in his bones, and in the wind. They meant nothing to him. He knew that they were supposed to mean everything.

He woke immediately and, half-asleep, reached for quill and ink to scrawl them onto a piece of parchment. Then he fell back into a light dream in which he flew after Snitches.

It would not be until morning that he would look at the parchment and puzzle over the four letters. By then, the details of his dream would have faded so that only those letters remained:

MDIU.


	4. Malfoy

**Author's Notes:** A big thank you to FreeDaChickens at Perfect Imagination for looking over this chapter. All remaining errors are my own.

4

MDIU.

Harry mused over the letters as he showered that morning, as he dressed, as he packed his schoolbooks into his bag, and as he made his way down to common room. Hermione was standing near the bottom of the stairs with Ron, and both of them seemed reluctant to approach him.

'Are you coming to breakfast?' Harry asked, looking from one to the other in confusion.

'Erm – okay,' Hermione said nervously. She moved swiftly towards the portrait hole and opened it to usher Ron though to the other side. When Harry stepped past her she stopped him with a hand on his elbow.

'You're ... you're feeling all right now? Everything's okay?' she said quietly.

Memories of yesterday flashed briefly through his mind: the visions, the screaming, the vomit, Hermione's fearful concern as she sat him down. It must have been quite an ordeal for her, Harry realized. The way he had behaved yesterday, it was no wonder his friend was worried.

'I'm fine,' he said now, 'really. I'm sorry about ... y'know.'

Hermione nodded and then smiled, though the smile seemed rather forced. 'I'm just glad you're feeling better. It's fine.'

They made their way down to the Great Hall in silence and settled at the breakfast table. Harry tried not to watch as Ron piled his plate with sausages, the sight of it making him queasy. The fact of the matter was that he was not fine. The visions seemed to have gone, but their effects persisted in the tightness of his chest and the sweatiness of his palms. His head ached, and a lingering sense of fear stalked his thoughts like a shadow.

He sipped his pumpkin juice and cast his mind back to the previous night's dream. That it meant something was beyond doubt to Harry; the little he could remember of it clawed at him with urgency. There had been a quest, he thought, a journey to uncover a secret ... and the meaning of those letters, MDIU, would help guide him on his way...

Hermione cleared her throat and set her spoon down. She met Harry's eyes, then looked past him to the far side of the hall.

'Malfoy seems better today,' she said. 'Don't you think, Harry?'

Harry stared at her. 'Malfoy?' What did he have to do with anything? 'I don't know.'

He turned around in his chair to glance over at the far table. Sure enough, Malfoy looked brighter than he had the last time Harry had run into him. His cheeks had more colour, and though he was sitting apart from the other Slytherins, he seemed cheerful enough.

Harry turned back to Hermione, shrugging. 'S'pose,' he answered. He really wasn't interested in the wellbeing of Malfoy of all people.

Ron seemed to share Harry's view. 'What are you worried about that git for, Hermione? Who cares how he is?'

'I just thought Harry might, that's all.'

Ron shot her a look of bewilderment that mirrored how Harry felt. 'Why would Harry care?' he said.

Harry said nothing. The _only_ time he had spoken to Malfoy this term, the only time he had so much as _noticed_ him, was during his search for the Resurrection Stone in the forest two nights ago. Hermione could not know about that – though hadn't she hinted about it before?

Harry patted his pocket, feeling for the stone. It was still there, still safe – still _useless_, he thought dejectedly. But there was no way Hermione could know about it.

Harry changed the subject before he could think better of it.

'MDIU,' he said. 'Does it mean anything to either of you? Is it an acronym or something?'

A short, puzzled pause met his words, and then Hermione launched straight into this new topic, clearly unable to leave a question of any sort unanswered.

'I don't know...' Her eyebrows were furrowed. 'It does sound like an initialism, but I can't say I've heard of it. Where did you read it? What's the context?'

'I'm not sure,' said Harry. Though he couldn't remember the details of the dream, it was still too private to share. 'They said it on the wireless,' he found himself saying. 'I was half-asleep, so I don't really remember what it was about.' He paused, his mind trying to grasp at the imprint the dream had left. 'I think it might have been ... something historical.'

'"Something historical",' Ron repeated. 'Well, that narrows it down.'

Harry frowned, knowing that Ron had a point. The letters in his head could stand for anything or nothing at all. If Hermione couldn't identify them, then how was he supposed to?

'I'm going to the library,' he decided, and he pushed himself up from the table. He staggered a little as he stood.

Ron caught his arm. 'Don't you think you should eat something, mate? Then get some rest? We've got a whole hour free before Charms.'

'I'm fine,' said Harry. He extricated himself from Ron and turned his back on his friends before they could even begin to argue.

When he reached the library, he made a beeline towards the biggest dictionary he could find and pulled it down to rifle through it. 'MDIU' was absent, the nearest entry being 'Mdme.' Harry sighed and heaved the dictionary back onto the shelf. He scanned the spines of the other reference books and found dictionaries of potions, of arithmancy, of charms and of Quidditch slang, but none of only acronyms.

Sighing, he sat down at the nearest table and tried to gather his thoughts. He could ask Madam Pince, but he didn't feel it was safe. For all Harry knew, MDIU might have darker connotations than _Sectumsempra_, so confiding in the librarian would be too risky. She might ask questions, and there was no guarantee that she would point in him the right direction even if she was able.

Approaching fellow students was a safer bet, but since neither Ron nor Hermione could help him, it probably wasn't knowledge learnt from either pureblood upbringing or books.

Having swiftly run out of ideas, Harry pulled a piece of parchment from his schoolbag and scribbled the letters down with his quill.

M-D-I-U.

Nothing jumped out at him, so he switched the letters around to see if meaning might emerge.

U-I-D-M.

He carried on moving the placement of each letter until twenty-four unique permutations ran down the parchment. None of them struck him with familiarity; each seemed as meaningless as the last. With no better options, though, he decided to check for certain. After heaving the dictionary back off its shelf, he looked up each of the combinations in turn.

He was up to 'DMIU' – having had no luck so far – when an interruption announced itself in the form of Neville Longbottom.

Harry looked up as his Gryffindor roommate cleared his throat.

'Sorry, Harry.' He sounded it. 'Everywhere else is taken, do you mind?'

Rather than wait for a reply, Neville dropped into the chair furthest from Harry and turned away from him.

It occurred to Harry, as he watched Neville dig out an old Herbology book and dump it on the table, that these were the first words that had passed between them since term had started. Certainly Harry had not gone out of his way to speak to Neville, but his housemates hadn't tried to talk to him either. In fact now that he remembered it, Neville had blanked Harry in the Great Hall the other day when he had been sitting with Ginny.

A smile broke out across his face as he remembered his sixth year and how desperate he had been to avoid Dean when he fell for the redhead. Was it possible that Neville was now going through something similar? The two of them had seemed very close at the feast...

The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that this was the case. Harry knew he ought to say something to Neville – ought to explain that he and Ginny had separated amicably, that he did not mind if she had moved on – but the thought of speaking so openly about relationships did not appeal. Still, he ought to say something to show there were no hard feelings...

'Hey Neville,' said Harry now. He waited as his friend turned nervously towards him and then gave him a reassuring smile. 'Are you busy? I could really do with your help on something. It's a long shot, but I'd really appreciate your input.'

And when his friend motioned for him to continue, though reluctantly at first, Harry moved into the seat next to Neville and explained about MDIU.

* * *

The lack of progress they made did not matter terribly to Harry, who had not expected Neville to have heard of MDIU and therefore saw no reason to be disappointed. Though the pair of them didn't find any dictionary entries for any of the combinations, Harry found it comforting to work alongside a friend who asked no questions. So comforting, in fact, that he found himself sharing more with Neville than he had with either Ron or Hermione. He did not go into great detail, but he admitted that the letters had come to him in a dream.

They parted at the end of the hour, Neville on his way to Herbology, Harry to Charms.

'Quidditch tryouts on Saturday,' said Ron by way of greeting as Harry took the seat next to him in Flitwick's classroom. 'Demelza's put a notice up.'

'Oh,' said Harry. He thought back to yesterday's meeting in Petrova's office. 'I don't think I'm going to bother.' Then he remembered the feast in the Great Hall the evening before. 'We should go and see Hagrid though. Today after classes.'

'You're joking!' said Ron. He winced at an elbow in the ribs from Hermione, who was sitting on Ron's other side. Professor Flitwick was staring at them pointedly.

'If you're all quite ready,' squeaked Flitwick from his perch on the teacher's desk, 'today we will be practicing Imperturbable Charms.'

There was no time to speak as students spelled the desks to one side and Flitwick conjured several dinner plates to hang static in the air around them. The aim of the lesson, he explained, was to cast the charm on their plate strongly enough that no object could break through the barrier to shatter it.

'You'll also get some practice at _Protego_, no doubt,' he finished.

Two minutes into the chaos, Harry saw what Flitwick meant: he was shielding himself left, right and centre from flying shards of porcelain. Other students less experienced with the charm had to resort to different means of defence. Harry tried not to laugh as he watched Seamus duck and cover.

'So why no Quidditch?' shouted Ron above the din of breaking crockery. 'You can't be serious about not wanting to play.'

'Give it a rest, Ron,' said Hermione. She flicked her wrist and sent a book flying towards her dinner plate. It stopped mid-air a centimetre away and dropped unceremoniously to the floor. Smiling to herself, Hermione _Accioed_ the book and raised her eyebrows. 'He's got more important things to do than play Quidditch, haven't you, Harry?'

Harry flung a Sickle towards his plate and frowned when it shattered. He cast an apologetic look at Ron. 'I just need to concentrate on schoolwork; I'm so out of touch at the minute.'

'So am I!' Ron pointed to his own recently broken plate in illustration. 'But it's _Quidditch_, you don't just give up _Quidditch_, Harry! _Quidditch_!'

'I said I'm not interested, all right! Stop saying "Quidditch"!'

Irritated, Harry repaired his plate with a wand flick and sent it soaring back into the air. After casting another Imperturbable Charm, he threw a book at it with all his might. It shattered noisily.

Harry felt Ron's eyes on his back as he bent over to pick up the pieces. 'Sorry,' he mumbled. 'We've just go so much work this year, and I can't bloody do this stupid fucking charm.'

'Here,' said Hermione. She crouched down over him and fixed the plate with her wand. When she had straightened up, she said, 'You're probably just tired, Harry.'

'I'm fine.'

But by the end of the lesson he still had made little progress with the charm.

The remainder of the day's classes went no better for Harry, as his headache worsened and made it impossible for him to concentrate. He tried and failed to rid himself of distractions outside of schoolwork, but though he had no difficulty ignoring Ron prattling on about Quidditch, it was far trickier to steer his thoughts from the visions, the dreams, and the possible meaning of MDIU.

He barely listened to Professor Aubrey speaking in his last class of the afternoon, Defence Against the Dark Arts. Though their new professor showed enthusiasm, he wasn't able to transfer this feeling to the students, many of whom were well versed in the spells he made them read about. He had designated their first lesson to theory rather than practice, and Harry's mind wandered as he stared at a chapter on the history of the Patronus – a spell that he had first mastered nearly five years ago.

Eventually the bell rang, and Harry gathered his things to head out of the Defence classroom with Ron and Hermione. The pair had agreed to visit Hagrid with him before dinner.

'So, just to make this _absolutely clear_ –'

'No, Ron, he's not going to try out for Quidditch. And I don't think you should, either,' said Hermione seriously. 'Haven't you considered giving the other years a chance to play?'

'It's not like I'm stopping them! If they're good enough, they'll make the team.'

'But you've had much more practice! It's hardly fair.'

'Quidditch isn't about being _fair_, Hermione, it's about _winning_.'

'It's a waste of time.'

Hermione and Ron both paused in their arguing to turn to Harry for backup. He shrugged and carried on moving. After a moment's silence, their bickering started up again, providing a soundtrack to their walk through the castle and out onto the grounds.

It was a dry, cool afternoon, and the sun was still high in the sky, its rays bright and glaring. Harry squinted as he stepped across the grass and rubbed his eyes to try to displace the dull throbbing in his head. Rather than walk direct to Hagrid's cabin, he made a detour to the edge of the forest where the trees cast a welcoming shade. Hermione and Ron tramped behind him, their persistent squabbling ringing in Harry's ears.

Already Harry was regretting his decision to come down here. His body seemed to protest as he walked on, trying not to stumble, the sickness he felt earlier returning with full force. He knew he should have eaten something before leaving the castle; now he thought about it, it had been well over twenty-four hours since his last proper meal.

A loud cracking noise interrupted his thoughts, and Harry stopped short to turn and face the direction of the distraction. Someone was moving in the forest, lumbering over broken branches, lurching towards him...

Harry stood statue still as the figure neared him, the shape of its billowing black cloak becoming visible through the trees...

His thoughts lost all coherence as the memories assailed him: image after image of death, of snakes rearing and fangs sinking into flesh, of bones cracking and blood seeping and that terrible, awful screaming ... the crunch of breaking limbs against the backdrop of high, cold laughter ... the smell of fear and the feel of blood-drenched robes...

'Harry! Harry, wake up!'

His eyes shot open. Hermione and Ron were staring down at him, outlined by clear blue sky, fraught expressions on their faces. Harry felt something digging into his back and rolled sideways on the grass.

'We've got to get you to Pomfrey.'

'It's all right,' said Harry. He put his hands flat on the ground and pushed himself up to a kneeling position. He held his breath for a moment before breathing in deeply.

'Harry, you fainted,' said Hermione, crouching down. She placed her hand on his shoulder, rubbing his back in a soothing fashion.

'I didn't faint. I just ... tripped or something,' managed Harry. 'I'm fine.' He wondered how many times he had said that today.

'I don't know, mate...' Ron began, but Harry silenced him by grabbing his arm. He pulled himself to his feet, using Ron's grip as leverage.

'Let's just get to Hagrid's. We're much closer to him than Pomfrey, and I could do with sitting down.'

Harry saw his friends exchange a look, obviously trying to reach a silent decision.

'Hagrid's _is_ closer,' said Hermione finally. 'Are you all right to walk, Harry?'

A few tentative steps indicated that he was not, and Ron and Hermione rushed to his side to stop him from falling. They walked to Hagrid's slowly, Harry's arms around his friends' shoulders as they propped him up.

After a few minutes, they reached the cabin, where Fang's barks boomed in reply to their knock on the door. There was a scuffling sound, and then Hagrid appeared before them, Fang at his side.

'Bou' time you three –' he started, before breaking off and taking in Harry's appearance. 'What's wrong with yeh? What's happened?' He moved to the left, pulling Fang with him, to let the three of them shuffle through the door.

'Harry fainted, Hagrid,' said Hermione over Harry's protestations. She and Ron manoeuvred him to the sofa where they all slumped down. 'Have you got any chocolate?'

Hagrid was still for a moment, staring at Harry in concern. Then he registered Hermione's request and flew into action. 'Chocolate, yeah, I think so. Hang on a minute.' And then he was rummaging around in the cupboards, Fang scrabbling at his feet. 'Lessee ... Know it's here somewhere ... aha!'

He returned a moment later with the largest chocolate bar Harry had ever seen, and sat down in the chair opposite to watch him eat it.

'Why'd yeh faint, Harry? An' don' go tellin' me yeh didn'.' Hagrid's beetle black eyes pierced into Harry's, who looked away.

'Missed lunch,' he muttered, swallowing a square of chocolate and breaking off another. 'But I feel much better now. How are you, Hagrid?'

'Why'd yeh miss lunch?'

'Forgot.'

Harry's cheeks burned as his friends once again exchanged looks. The urge to talk about anything else built with each second of their silence. 'Hagrid, what do you think of Petrova?' he said now. 'You were with her the other day in the Great Hall. Is she ... who is she? What's she like?'

The silence took on a different feel as Ron and Hermione straightened in their seats next to him, just as interested as he was to hear what Hagrid had to say.

'Yeh sure yeh're alrigh', Harry?'

He nodded frantically. 'Much better, really.' It wasn't a lie; Harry could already feel warmth from the chocolate sweeping through his body. 'I'll go to Pomfrey later anyway just in case. I swear.'

'Alrigh',' said Hagrid. 'So what do yeh want ter know about Petrova?'

The trio sat in rapt silence as Hagrid told them all he knew about their new professor, from his first impressions ('Brillian' woman, sharp like') to deeper feelings regarding her state of mind ('Used ter teach at Durmstrang, that'll have toughened her up a bit, but she's friendlier than she seems, lonely, I reckon').

'She was dead int'rested in Harry here. O' course, who isn't?'

'How d'you mean?' said Harry.

'She was askin' me abou' the final battle, abou' what yeh did an' everythin'. Told her all abou' it.'

'Oh,' said Harry. So that was what had made Petrova wary during the feast: Hagrid's description of _him_.

He turned to catch Hermione's eye; she smiled at him apologetically.

'Forgot me manners!' said Hagrid now. 'Didn' offer yeh tea or anythin'!' He stood up and lumbered over to the counter.

'We're fine, Hagrid,' said Ron quickly but to no avail: Hagrid was already returning with a tray of rock cakes.

An hour passed in which they drank tea, chatted, and ate, Hermione and Ron looking enviously at Harry's chocolate as they braved the rock cakes. Hagrid filled them in his latest acquisition of Graphorn eggs ('Grawpie likes ter play with them in the forest'), and Hermione and Ron talked for a while about Arithmancy and Quidditch. Eventually, when they were six rock cakes down and Ron was nursing his jaw, Harry suggested they ought to get back to start on their homework.

They said their goodbyes, promising to come back again soon, and headed up the grounds to the castle.

'Hospital Wing then?' said Hermione when they were back in the Entrance Hall. 'You did say you'd see Pomfrey.'

'But I'm fine now!' Harry protested.

Hermione frowned. 'All the same, people don't just faint for no reason...'

'Ron, tell her,' said Harry.

'Don't ask me,' said Ron, looking from his best friend to his girlfriend and shrugging. 'He seems all right now, but –'

'Exactly. Come on, Hermione, you can help me with that essay on Charms.'

Without waiting for an answer, Harry walked up the staircase to the first floor. He let out a sigh of relief when his friends followed behind him without further comments.

The evening was spent in a leisurely fashion as they huddled around a table in the Gryffindor common room and made an inroad into their workload, stopping only for dinner. Having put the finishing touches to his Charms essay, Harry played chess with Ron for a while and then headed to bed.

He was asleep the moment that his head touched the pillow, his dream taking him from the dormitory and depositing him in a new room that was unfamiliar yet similar to his own. Here, the same four-poster beds lined the circular wall of the tower, but no one stirred in them; he was alone and the room was quite bare.

Candlelight shone though a crack in a door to the left of him, and he gradually became aware of voices audible in the distance. Harry crept out of bed and slowly walked out of the dormitory, curiosity pulling him along.

The corridor was high and narrow, lit by flaming torches bracketed on the walls. A thin, red velvet runner lay across the floorboards, cushioning his feet. Harry padded along the corridor until it ended with a spiral staircase. From below him came the voices, clearer now. He could make out two separate people, one male, one female, and without hesitation, he started down the stairs towards them.

The bottom of the stairs opened into a large drawing room furnished with plush green armchairs at one end and a rosewood table at the other. Petrova and Snape were sitting next to each other at the table and did not look up as he walked past the armchairs towards them. Some part of Harry thought he ought to be surprised they were there, but he was not sure why; after all, it was obvious that the two professors belonged here.

Harry was standing in front of them now, but they continued to ignore him, their interest drawn to a book lying open on the table.

'What is it?' Harry asked, to no reply.

He leant over to examine the book. It was large and old, and the pages were filled with cramped lines of heavy black text interspersed with woodcuts.

'What is it?' he said again, more urgently now. There was something about the book – it felt terribly familiar, terribly important.

But they were rising from the table, not having heard him. Petrova walked past Harry towards the armchairs, while Snape gathered the book in his arms. Harry caught a brief glance of the spine before Snape's hands obscured it. The look was long enough for him to read the gold lettering of the title:

A TRAILE OF FOURE

Harry stepped back, gripped by sudden panic. Snape met his eyes.

'Find Malfoy,' he told Harry.


End file.
